Loren's Baby

‘I don’t intend to.’

A knock at the study door curtailed any response she might have made, and without waiting for his summons, Angela Ross appeared in the doorway. Her eyes flickered over Caryn without liking, and then she looked at her father.

‘Tris, how much longer are you going to be? Marcia’s made a pizza for your supper, and it’s going to be ruined if you don’t eat it soon.’

His features changed as he looked at his daughter. Watching him, Caryn felt a curious pang at the gentleness of his expression. Why couldn’t he have looked at Loren like that? she thought resentfully. Why should this girl feel herself so secure when he owed just as much allegiance to the woman who had borne his child, and to his son …

‘We’re almost through,’ he told Angela now. ‘Miss—er—Stevens is leaving.’

Caryn squared her shoulders. ‘If you’ll give me a sheet of paper, I’ll give you my address.’

She was aware of his daughter’s raised eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Angela would have to know sooner or later, and why should she protect her? It was up to her father to explain, if he could.

Angela hung around as Caryn wrote her address on the pad he handed to her, adding her telephone number in case it was needed. Tristan barely glanced at it as he tossed it on to his desk, and she was aware that he was waiting for her to go.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured her politely, his eyes glinting, with suppressed anger. She guessed he had not cared for her referring to some future association in front of his daughter, but that was just too bad, she thought half defensively.

Outside, the air had never smelt so sweet, and she walked up to where she had left the car on legs that threatened to give out on her. Well, she had done it, she thought defiantly, and wondered why she was suddenly so doubtful …

Caryn spent the night at the hotel in Carmarthen and travelled back to London the next morning. The journey seemed so much shorter going back, but perhaps that was because she had more enthusiasm towards her destination.

Her flat was on the second floor of a house in Bloomsbury. It was not the most fashionable area of London, but it was civilised, and the tall Victorian houses had an atmosphere that was missing from the stark concrete and glass sky-scrapers that had sprung up all around them. Mrs Theobald, who lived on the ground floor, had window boxes, and at this time of the year they were bright with geraniums, and gave a distinct individuality to Number II Faulkner Terrace. Caryn had rung her friends from the hotel that morning, and when she reached the second floor the door of the Westons’ flat opened and Laura appeared with the baby in her arms.

‘Hi,’ she said, smiling, her freckled face showing sympathy for Caryn’s aching legs. ‘Come in and have a cuppa. Bob’s already gone to the studio.’

Bob Weston was a commercial photographer, working for a small agency in Notting Hill. He photographed weddings and christenings, and occasionally did spreads for small magazines, but his ambition was to move into the more lucrative world of television.

‘Thanks.’ Caryn barely glanced at her nephew as she followed Laura into the flat, a facsimile of her own except that it was much tidier. She tried never to let herself feel any attachment for the child, knowing as she did that the authorities would not let her keep him much longer.

‘He’s been so good,’ Laura exclaimed, closing the door before walking to a folding pram standing in the comer. ‘He didn’t even wake during the night.’

‘No. He’s very good.’ Caryn sounded weary and indifferent, and Laura looked at her anxiously.

‘Well?’ she ventured. ‘What happened? You were very vague on the phone this morning.’

Caryn flung herself into an armchair. ‘I told you I saw—him.’

‘Yes.’ Laura padded through to the tiny kitchen to put on the kettle. ‘But you didn’t say what was going to happen.’

‘He wants to see him.’

‘Who?’ Laura came to the door of the kitchen. ‘Tristan Ross wants to see the baby?’

‘Yes.’

Laura grimaced. ‘So when are you taking him?’

‘I’m not. He wants to come here.’

Laura ran a hand over the swelling mound of her stomach and subsided into a chair with evident relief. ‘Heavens!’

Caryn forced a rueful smile. ‘Yes. I’d better see about tidying my place up.’

‘I didn’t mean that. And besides, it isn’t so bad.’

Caryn sighed. ‘It isn’t so good. But since Loren died … and having him …’ She tipped her head towards the pram from which direction a low gurgling sound could be heard.

Laura shook her head uncomprehendingly. ‘I don’t know how you can consider giving him away,’ she burst out unwillingly. ‘He’s adorable. And so sweet …’

‘Oh, Laura!’ Caryn shifted restlessly. ‘How can I keep him? I don’t earn enough to support him, for one thing. And who would look after him while I was at work? You can’t much longer, and then …’

‘But don’t you love him?’

‘There’s not much point, is there?’ murmured Caryn bitterly, getting up and walking across the room, coming to a halt reluctantly beside the folding pram. Of course he was sweet, she thought impatiently, as she saw the quiff of feathery fair hair, the plump little hands curling and uncurling, the softly pursed lips oozing dribbles down his chin. Laura was right—he was a good baby. But she had no time for babies.

The kettle whistled and Laura got up to make the tea, and returning to her seat Caryn reflected what good friends the Westons had been to her. Without their assistance, she could never have kept the baby this long, but she had been determined not to let the social services people take him. Not after what Loren had begged her to do.

And yet it hadn’t been easy, making up her mind to go and see Tristan Ross. For one thing, she had had to find out where he lived and whether he was there at the moment. He spent quite a lot of his time travelling, but fortunately Bob had had connections in the television industry, and he had supplied the information that when Ross returned from his present trip to Canada he was scheduled to do a series of programmes for a London television company.

Laura carried the tray of tea into the living room and set it down on a table near at hand. Caryn came to join her, and they each enjoyed the reviving flavour of the beverage.

Munching a biscuit, which she confessed she should not be eating, Laura asked when Tristan Ross intended to come to the flat.

‘I don’t know,’ Caryn admitted with a sigh. ‘But I gave him the phone number. I guess he’ll ring first and make an appointment. He’s used to doing that sort of thing.’

‘What was he like?’

Laura was intrigued, but Caryn just poured herself more tea and gave an offhand shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know what he’s like,’ she said. ‘You’ve seen him on television plenty of times.’

‘I know.’ Laura gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘But it’s different meeting someone, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not a fan,’ declared Caryn flatly, and her friend’s freckled face coloured unbecomingly.

‘I know that,’ she murmured uncomfortably. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest you were.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Laura.’ Caryn felt contrite. ‘Take no notice of me. I’m an ungrateful creature. And after all you’ve done for me …’ She made an effort to be objective. ‘He—well, he’s taller than you might imagine, and he’s certainly—well, sexy, I suppose.’

‘You could understand why Loren was so infatuated with him, then?’ asked Laura quietly.

‘Oh, yes.’ Caryn had to be honest, although it went against the grain to find excuses for him. ‘I should think she found him fascinating. Any—any impressionable woman would.’

‘But not you?’ suggested Laura dryly.

‘Me!’ Caryn looked affronted. ‘You must be joking!’

‘Why? That’s quite a solution to your problems, have you thought of that?’

‘What do you mean?’